The folklore of names and rivers.
The curriculum of undoing the abstractions.
One has one’s priorities.
Each day he would remember:
delete the remarkable cities.
What is a thing to be unnamed?
Not that it was required.
Nothing is ever asked of him in that way.
When the call came he knew what must be done.
One just knows. Things have a reputation.
One must keep up appearances.
The appointment came, belatedly.
Waking up with the swallows, the oak –
a great black-horned antlered night, gone!
Emptied, undone the sky looked blankly on.
He shut the curtains against that light.
Walking – crackling snow. Stars.
Breath beating its wings.
The village of white trees, abandoned.
The pond mirroring neither sky nor him.
A sound in the distance, forgetting itself.
It would be like that.
A Tailor of imaginary theories.
Death would come peddling a suit of stars.
He stood in the unnamed place.
Watched it dissolve, come back.
He beheld the solace of ordinary things.
The city traffic started up, again.
The light changed.
Nothing would be the same.
The irony was not without repercussions.
But he knew that.
Sometimes it was better that way.
Decreation is a difficult and lonely enterprise.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.